


Rings

by blackkat



Series: 64 Damn Prompts [45]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, Love doesn't always make things better, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance, but it definitely helps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people would have said they complimented each other, the impulsive captain and his steadfast lieutenant.</p><p>But then, most people didn’t really know them, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rings

**Author's Note:**

> And the obsession with Shuuhei continues. Someone really should save me…

They were never going to exchange rings. Ichigo had accepted that a long time ago. He didn’t particularly care, either. Their relationship wasn’t something either of them had asked for, and there was always an odd current of _resentment_ in their rarely shown affection for one another.

Ichigo would always be the brash young captain, promoted to leader when Soul Society had no other choice. He would always be headstrong, confident, and reckless, and always take up a fight when it was offered. Even if, outside of confrontations, he was reasonably levelheaded and clever, he was a fighter before all else. That wouldn’t change with a rise in rank.

Shuuhei would always be the calm, controlled one, slow to fight and even slower to forgive, weighing all scenarios and paths before he made his move. If they could be compared to chess moves, Shuuhei was a Staunton Gambit, careful, sound, and well thought-out, but rather predictable; Ichigo was the Sicilian Gambit, sharp and aggressive but determined never to fail. Most people would have said they complimented each other, the impulsive captain and his steadfast lieutenant.

But then, most people didn’t really know them, either.

It started, like most things between them, with an argument. Something that was probably trivial, and that Ichigo didn’t even remember anymore, but that ended with Shuuhei pinning Ichigo against his desk and trying to smother him with a tongue down his throat. Not that Ichigo didn’t give as good as he got, but in that case, he was more than happy to let Shuuhei take the lead. They had left early that day, and ended up in Ichigo’s quarters in the barracks, fucking each other’s brains out until all of the aggression from their fight was gone, turned into sweat and breathless gasps and cries quickly smothered.

Shuuhei stayed the night, and next, and then quite simply moved in.

From a distance, it was a perfect relationship. They understood the other’s workaholic urges, understood the drive never to fail another person, and shared working hours. What was between them never bled over to their positions, their jobs, and they snipped like a long-married couple all day, regardless of whether they were fucking or not. Out of earshot, the shinigami in the 9th referred to them as Mom and Dad—though it was unclear who was who in that dynamic—and their fights (both on and off the battlefield) were legendary. Shuuhei reined in Ichigo’s more self-destructive tendencies, and Ichigo pushed Shuuhei to give up a little of his control, to let go and not over-think things. And underneath all of the snarking, the sarcasm, the polite coolness and countermoves, there was a genuine affection between them, something deep and abiding and gentle that belied all of their usual mannerisms.

But it was _because_ of those things, the reasons they seemed perfect, because of the fact that they were in love, that the resentment between them existed. Ichigo had never _wanted_ to fall for his fiercely self-possessed, unflinching lieutenant. Shuuhei had most certainly never _intended_ to love his fiery, sarcastic, rash captain. He had loved Kira for a long time, as Ichigo had loved Rukia. The only thing between them had been insults, sharp humor, and a camaraderie established amid the ruins of the 9 th after the war was over.

But they had fallen, fallen hard, and each resented the other for it, just a little bit.

 _‘Why do you love me?’_ Ichigo had demanded once, in the middle of one of their private arguments—the kind that usually ended with them in bed, scraping and clawing and fucking without a hint of restraint.

This time was no different, and as Shuuhei toppled him back onto their futon in a tackle that would have done any karate black belt proud, he had hissed, ‘ _Because I can't help myself. Because_ you _love_ me _, and there's nothing I can do about it except return it.’_

And that, Ichigo supposed, summed up their entire relationship rather nicely.

 

 

Rukia understood, even though Ichigo had never explicitly explained anything. Whenever he would show up in her rooms, snarling and hissing and aggravated beyond all bearing, she would fix him a cup of tea, sit him down on her porch, and not let him up until he could speak without swearing. She rarely asked what had happened, and never pushed Ichigo to talk about it, but he found himself doing so anyway.

“Bastard,” he growled once. “He does this on _purpose_ , just to get to me. I _told_ him I wanted to deal with the paperwork, that I could _do_ it. I'm not incompetent. This is what they made me take all of those damned classes at the Academy for, so that I knew how to run a division without my _lieutenant_ holding my hand all the way through. He just doesn’t _get_ it.”

 _And I love him so much that it’s driving both of us nuts,_ went unsaid.

“He hates it,” he said after a moment, voice going flat with melancholy. “He hates being in love with me. I hate it sometimes, too, but Shuuhei hates it _all the time_. And I can't let him go without making both of us even more miserable. There’s…no other option.”

But that wasn’t quite true. There was one, if he could ever be brave enough to take it.

Rukia held his hand between her own and smiled sadly at him, as though she understood everything he _wasn’t_ saying. “It’s hard to fall in love, isn’t it?” she said softly.

Ichigo laughed sharply and lay back against the wood, closing his eyes against the light and warmth of the sun. He shook his head and laughed again, draping an arm over his face.

“It’s not the falling that I'm scared of,” he said, voice muffled by the sleeve of his yukata. “That part’s easy. It’s peaceful, _simple_. I'm just scared that someday, I’ll hit the ground.”

Rukia kept her hold on his hand and didn’t let go.

“What matters most to you?” she asked.

Ichigo kept his eyes closed, specks of crimson and white light playing like a kaleidoscope across his eyelids. He thought back to the last time he and Shuuhei had fought side by side, the way their swords had sung with the same bright, clear voice of fierce determination, and he smiled desolately.

_If only Shuuhei could hear the same thing._

 

 

Shuuhei, for all that he liked to keep things to himself, found himself seeking out Captain Komamura when things were too much to bear on his own. It happened somewhat more frequently than he felt it should, but then, that was Ichigo—amazing and overwhelming and more than any sane person would ever dream of taking on.

It had been a long time since Shuuhei had felt even reasonably sane.

At one point, while Ichigo was on patrol in Hueco Mundo and had _failed to stay in contact_ , even though Shuuhei had _told him specifically to do so_ , it got so bad that Shuuhei managed to make one of the newer recruits cry. She had been at fault, certainly, but Shuuhei stared after her in mixed horror and bewilderment as she fled, and knew that he would do no one any good like this. Gathering the tattered remains of his dignity around him, he strode into the office, signed himself out, and went to look for Komamura.

The captain was most accommodating, taking an early lunch and leading Shuuhei up to the roof that they always used for their talks. He had let Shuuhei fret in silence for several minutes, and then said gently, “You still have not discovered a cure for what ails you?”

There was humor buried under the concern, because Shuuhei tended to talk about falling in love with Ichigo the same way someone else would talk about contracting a life-threatening illness.

Shuuhei shot him a sharp glance that said he didn’t appreciate the gentle ribbing, and growled, “Not yet. I'm still looking. But he’s—”

There were so many words that would fit, and Shuuhei couldn’t pull just one to the forefront. _Beautiful_ was among the foremost, as was _infuriating_ , or _devastating, amazing, horrible, strong._ ‘ _Driving me nuts_ ’ was a stalwart contender, too.

Komamura chuckled as though he had picked all of them out of the younger man’s brain. “Kurosaki is a singular figure,” he said after a moment’s deliberation. “As are you. It is a sign of the depth of your feeling that you worry so much for him. Perhaps you should tell him?”

Unlike Renji—and Rukia, whom Shuuhei knew Ichigo often talked to—Komamura didn’t exactly understand their relationship. Nevertheless, he was far more levelheaded than Abarai, and saw things differently because of his perspective, so he was the one Shuuhei spoke to most often. Right now, however, he was wishing that Komamura _did_ know what the two of them together were really like, because it was otherwise too complex to put into words.

“He knows,” Shuuhei said after a minute. “That’s never been the problem with us. I know what he feels, and he knows what I do. It’s just…there's no room to breathe. He’s one way and I'm another, and we can't change. We’re not going to drive each other off, but there's always a chance that we _could_.” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I'm never sure if that’s the terrifying part, or if it’s a relief.”

Almost anyone else would have waved off his concerns, assuring him that he and Ichigo were perfect for each other, and had already come a long ways from who they had been in the beginning, but Komamura just _listened_. It was one of the things that Shuuhei appreciated most about him.

At length, the captain said carefully, “Kurosaki breaks your control. You cannot help what you feel for him. That is…not something to be ashamed of, Hisagi.”

Whatever answer Shuuhei might have made was downed out by the sound of the Seireitei’s alarms announcing the return of a wounded patrol. In a heartbeat, Shuuhei was up and gone, shunpo taking him across the city in a matter of seconds. He landed by the gate just as the last 9th Division member tumbled through, battered and weary.

For one brief, heartrending moment, Shuuhei couldn’t see the familiar head of bright hair.

Then a pair of seated officers shifted, laying the man suspended between them on the ground, and Shuuhei’s breath caught in his throat. He strode over to them, trying not to stare at the limp, bloody figure at their feet, and demanded, “What happened?”

“Hollows, sir,” the woman said, saluting a moment too late. Her skin was grey with exhaustion, and none of the others looked any better. “They drove us into the Menos Forest, cutting off our communication, and Captain Kurosaki held them off while we tried to find a way out.”

“Excuse me.” Captain Unohana pushed her way to the front of the crowd, other 4th Division members behind her. Quickly, she knelt next to Ichigo and began laying out bandages. Her lieutenant joined her, and the captain ordered swiftly, “Isane, help me stabilize him before we try for a transfer. He’s lost too much blood.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Isane joined Unohana, casting a swift apologetic glance at Shuuhei as she did. Shuuhei couldn’t understand that, but he pushed it from his mind— _compartmentalizing_ , Kira called it, when they talked, and he made it sound like a bad thing—and turned to the other 9th Division members. A quick assessment picked out those that were still mobile, clustered outside the bustle of the 4th Division healers, and he strode over to them.

“Sir,” the seventh seat said, saluting. Shuuhei gave him a sharp nod, then glanced at the five shinigami.

“Get back to the barracks and get some sleep,” he ordered. “You can file your report tomorrow, after you’ve been checked over by the 4th, but I don’t want to see a single one of you before noon.”

“Thank you, sir,” the man who had helped to bring Ichigo back said. He was all but wavering where he stood, but he looked at Shuuhei and said softly, “You should know, Lieutenant. Captain Kurosaki asked that if he didn’t make it, we were to try and bring his body back to you. He said that you…” He hesitated, as though unsure how welcome his words would be, and then finished quietly, “You needed to know that he hadn’t left you by choice. Closure.”

It took Shuuhei a moment longer than it should have to process the words, but hen he did, he bit back a sigh, rubbing a hand over his eyes in a loss of control that he normally wouldn’t have allowed in front of others. But that…those words just brought his anger spinning back, sharper and harsher than ever. Ichigo _never_ talked like that. He _never_ gave up. But…he had.

Maybe Komamura had been right. Maybe Ichigo _didn’t_ understand as much as Shuuhei thought he did.

This, quite obviously, had been an attempt at suicide.

_He was trying to set me free, the bastard._

Shuuhei turned on his heel and headed for the 4th Division, one hand clenched around Kazeshini’s hilt.

He was falling faster and faster, and without Ichigo there, no one would ever be able to catch him.

 

 

“Ever since I was a child, I've been in control. Now I'm losing that. How do you think that feels, Ichigo?”

 _Of course_ , Ichigo thought a touch bitterly. _He’d be able to tell the moment I started to wake up._ He opened his eyes to the sight of Shuuhei with his arms crossed, seated next to his bed in the 4 th Division.

“This isn’t exactly something you can control,” he agreed quietly, voice hoarse from shouting orders to the rest of the patrol. Closing his eyes, he sighed. “I'm sorry.”

“You're not.” Shuuhei’s voice was immovable steel, unwavering. He leaned forward slightly, grey eyes gone cold with a fury that had doubtless increased exponentially after a night of sitting by Ichigo’s bedside. “Ichigo, that was _suicide_. You _gave up_ , just because you thought—”

Ichigo raised an eyebrow, cutting him off. “You really believe you know what I'm thinking, Shuuhei?” he asked softly. “I've been waiting a long time for you to get over this stupid thing about losing control—”

“Stupid?” Shuuhei spat. “It’s hardly stupid. Kazeshini—”

“Bullshit.” Ichigo painfully pushed himself up on one elbow, eyes sharp and narrow. “You're not the only one with a monster in their head, Shuuhei, or a self you can't control. But you know what? _You're_ the reason I fight so hard. I had to give up some of my control to get even more back. Why can't you get that?”

Shuuhei froze, mind racing as he opened his mouth. No words emerged, so he shut it again and sighed, one hand automatically rising to rake through his already disheveled hair.

“Right,” he said after a moment, and really, what else could he say? He’d forgotten about the Hollow that Ichigo carried around in his skull, and Ichigo had misunderstood what he wanted, running off to get himself killed without even bothering to _talk_ to Shuuhei about it. They were both at fault here, equally in the wrong, and they had been clinging to the same wrongs for a while now.

It was time this ended.

Carefully, he leaned over Ichigo and pushed him back to the mattress, then feathered a soft kiss over his lips. “Idiot,” he said, and there were like amounts of fondness and fading anger in the word. His gaze turned serious, and he stared down at his captain with a dark gaze. “Ichigo, you're the one who made me fall. If you ever do something like that again, I won't kill you. But I’ll follow you. I swear to it. If you die, I won't be able to help it. I love you, you bastard.”

Ichigo’s eyes widened slightly, and then he smiled, faint and soft. “I can't stop you from falling,” he said, reaching up to interlace their fingers. “But I think we both can make sure neither of us hits the ground.”

Shuuhei returned the slight smile, breathed out with a rush of heady relief, and returned, “Yeah. That we can do.”


End file.
